


She Wolf

by ollyollyoxenfree (onionblossomhorseradish)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Genderbending, Genderswap, I will, Rating May Change, Slice of Life, Tags May Change, and WLWs being soft and oblivious, and fuck terfs, and if i have to write AU fanfic to make that happen, geralt and jaskier are both cis women in this but i want to say, i just want stories about buff monster slaying women, if it all goes to plan, jaskier is a bi woman, that you dont have to have a vagina to be a woman ok thanks, they're lesbians because i said so, this is mostly gonna be character exploration, this is selfcare, this will probably be a series of somewhat disjointed little scenes, well geralt is a lesbian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26417455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onionblossomhorseradish/pseuds/ollyollyoxenfree
Summary: me watching The Witcher: this would be cooler if geralt was a lesbianme playing Witcher 3: this would be way cooler if geralt was a lesbianme realizing i can just write fanfiction: …………………………...lesbian time
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

A cool night wind creaks through the surrounding pines, kicking up dust and fallen needles and the scent of dry-rot with it. It circles the sputtering campfire, threatening both to blow it out and fan the flames to a wildfire in turns, the flames leaping and stuttering like ragged breath.

Jaskier crumples up the last piece of parchment to her name and throws it into the fire. It sends a small puff of embers sailing up with the smoke as it hits them with more force than strictly necessary, but she’s allowed some frustration, okay?

It’s been a shitty day in a shitty week consisting of travelling between shitty towns making too little money on her performances, and worst-of-fucking-all she is stuck, lost, _adrift_ , creatively forsaken, devoid of all inspiration. She watches the paper burn, the flame gobbling it up starting at the edges and moving inward. Patterns of forge-bright embers burst across every scratched-out and half-formed line on the page, the last evidence of her failing muse turning to smoke before her.

At least it will keep the night’s chill off of her a few moments longer. Jaskier bundles herself up tighter in her skirts, hiking up the thin blanket that’s now doing double duty as a cloak high on her shoulders, and thinks regretfully about the past few weeks.

She had left Oxenfurt with a spring in her step and excitement thrumming through her veins. She had always wanted this, a life on the road, to see new places and meet new people, to have a bit of an adventure. She thought it would be good for her songs - they say to write what you know, and how can you know anything if you don’t go out and look for something _to_ know? But unless she wanted to sing songs about blistered heels, sunburns, and bug bites, she was fresh out of material. The piece of paper that sits now, blackened and crumbling, in the sad ashes of her campfire, covered in frustrated scribbles, was a few days old already. She’d given up even _trying_ to write down her ideas now, as few and as fleeting as they were.

Maybe she should turn back. Maybe this was just a sign that life on the road wasn’t for her. A curl of wind kicks up, tugging at her hair and blowing ash up out of the fire and into her face. Whatever she had been looking for on the road, she hadn’t found it. When she’d set out she had had big, lofty hopes - of wandering, singing, _living_. Of a wild life, unbound by home or hearth or stifling job. Of singing songs of the people she met, the things she saw - it had all been very romantic. And, apparently, very misled. She supposed maybe this is what she got for paying so much attention to adventure stories as a girl: a harsh slap in the face as reality proved itself so much duller than fantasy. Maybe this was it, a symbolic and fitting end to her journey, a sign it was finally time for her to turn back, with her pitiful fire sputtering to death, the last of her papers lying dead and burnt within it.

Maybe.

When she sees Posada, she’s not as relieved as she probably ought to be. It’s just that yes, she’s out of the wilderness and on a real hard-packed road and there’s civilization and human life ahead of her, but she’s not got a coin to her name right now, and is _really_ not in the mood to play for more.

But play she must, and play she does. She finds the local tavern, tries to scrub some of the grime off of her face and get herself looking a little more presentable - looks are important for a bard, often more than skill alone - and plasters on a false smile as she walks through the door, lute in hand.

Inside the tavern it’s dusty, dim, and it smells like ale, bitter and barleyed. The tallow candles placed sparsely across the tabletops give the air a hazy, greasy quality. Without a scrap of genuineness behind the bravado, she stands tall and announces herself in a clear bright voice.

“Good day, Posada!” She crows, “My name is Jaskier the bard, and today I’m going to sing for you fine folks!”

By the time she’s done singing, rough-voiced and sweaty, her purse is a little heavier, but the few wolf whistles she’d gotten at the beginning have largely transformed into boos and jeers. Of course this backwards, backwater town wouldn’t appreciate anything she had to give them. She’s just scooping a piece of bread directed at her up off of the floor and into her skirts - unlike some of the fine folk here, Jaskier won’t let a perfectly good loaf go to waste - when her eyes land on a tall figure in black at the back of the room.

She nearly trips over her own feet as she stands, watching the woman in the corner. She knows that figure - the white hair, the scars, the dark armor. Well, doesn’t _know_ know her, knows _of_ her. She’d bet every last bit of bread on her that that woman is Geralt of Rivia - a witcher, renown for some sort of terrible incident in a town in Redania, but more importantly, for her professional practice. She hunts monsters for a living.

Jaskier’s never met a witcher before, only listened, wide-eyed, to tales of them and their nomadic lifestyle full of adventure and excitement. A childlike wonder she’s held for fairytales and knights-errant her whole life churns and mixes with fascination and intrigue as she makes her way over to the woman’s table. As she draws nearer, she can see clearly the twin swords strapped across her back, her stark white hair a glittering contrast to the shadow’s she’s lurking in, her eyes glinting yellow, like a predator, in the dim.

It’s something she would have done anyway, witcher or not, approaching her - Jaskier’s weak for anyone handsome, man or woman, and the tantalising view of the witcher’s muscled forearms under her rucked-up shirtsleeves is enough to make her swoon - but right now her interest is more academic than romantic. As she gets closer Jaskier can see the way the witcher is holding her mug tightly between her strong, lean hands, can see each tiny scar dotted across them, a compliment to the two deep gashes that line her face, and Jaskier just _knows_ there’s a good story behind each and every one of them, a lifetime of harrowing heroics engraved upon her skin.

Before Jaskier can properly make a plan of attack, she realizes she’s made it to the witcher’s table, and pauses for a too-long moment. The witcher is steadfastly ignoring her, eyes set stubbornly on the mug of ale in her hands, as if Jaskier might not notice her if she stays still enough. 

“Hi,” Jaskier bumbles onwards, and at this at least, the woman looks up, her eyes - piercing yellow and slitted like a cat’s - flitting to Jaskier’s. “I’m Jaskier, travelling bard.”

The witcher doesn’t make a move to speak, just staring her down, gaze steady and inscrutable.

Jaskier swallows nervously.

“A review!” She shifts tactics, waving her arms wide, “Three words or less. Everyone else threw in their two cents.” She leans low over the table with a grin, in case flashing a bit of cleavage might help break the witcher’s silence. 

The woman - witcher - Geralt, presumably, though she still hasn’t given a name, nor spoken a word - keeps her eyes thoroughly fixed on Jaskier’s.

“Come on, you don’t want to keep a woman with-- bread in her skirts waiting.”

She rolls her eyes “They don’t exist.”

“What don’t exist?”

“The creatures in your songs.”

Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. These past few miserable weeks on the road, her writer’s block, her _directionlessness_ , all come back to her in a rush - and here is her cure, sitting in front of her, staring her down with an expression somewhere between bored and constipated. This woman’s a witcher, living her life on the road, living the life of adventure Jaskier had dreamed of and searched for but never quite gotten hold of. She’s seen battle and bloodshed, peril and thrills, and more of the world than Jaskier could even imagine. With her words she’s let slip her hand, showed the stories Jaskier knew she must have up her sleeves - of _real_ monsters and _real_ adventure and fuck if Jaskier didn’t ache to know each and every one of them, to weave them into epics and ballads and build each of them a song to live in. Before her is the muse she’s been longing for ever since she left school, the missing piece of the puzzle, the solution to her every problem. 

While Jaskier’s brain is running like an out-of-control horse, the witcher apparently gets bored, stands, and shoulders past her roughly. She’s halfway out of the tavern before Jaskier blinks back to the present, mind made up and resolve furiously strengthened.

She runs to catch up to the witcher, “Wait, you didn’t give me your name!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls, “Geralt of Rivia, the witcher!”

Jaskier knows she’s right when the woman’s shoulders stiffen. 

“Called it!” I called it,” she crows as Geralt leaves the pub, trailing after her, “You’re a _witcher_ , a real witcher!”

Geralt turns to her then, finally, now that they’re outside, a growl building in her throat. Geralt swings to face her, and Jaskier steps back, the snarl on Geralt’s face shocking a bit of nerves and sense back into her. But before Geralt can say whatever unpleasant thing is clearly on the tip of her tongue, a voice rises behind her.

“Witcher, I’ve a job for you, please.”

And Jaskier is vindicated, hours and one harrowing, genuine, _honest-to-gods_ _adventure_ later, when Geralt lives up to her expectations by subverting them. A stubborn woman with a heart of gold, helping those she was hired to kill - inspiration is buzzing in her fingertips already, and when she gets her hands on her _new elven lute_ , she can’t help but begin to play it, listening to each note rising higher and clearer and more beautiful from it than from any other lute she’s played. Her heart kicks up, and she was _right_ , this is what she needed - this is the inspiration she’s been lacking, and Geralt… Jaskier wants to know the stories Geralt has, yes, but also she wants to know _Geralt_ , whose walls are carefully guarded but have already slipped enough to give Jaskier a glance of the depth behind them. Geralt is a complicated thing, a tangle in a complex tapestry that Jaskier desperately wants to know and understand and pick apart.

So it’s surprising, as Geralt gathers her things and leads her horse out of town - Jaskier thinks she heard the woman calling it Roach, earlier, was that it’s name? - when Geralt swings around to fix her with a look. An unencouraging, slightly confused look.

“What are you doing?”

“Following you,” Jaskier says, as if it’s obvious, because it seems fairly obvious to her.

Geralt grimaces at her, “No, you’re not.”

“Well, here I am, putting one foot in front of the other, going the same way as you, so clearly I am--”

“I mean you shouldn’t be,” Geralt snaps.

“Geralt, after all that, you expect us to just part ways?”

“Yes,” Geralt growls, “You ought to turn back.”

“Well, I think I shan’t.”

Geralt fixes her with a hard stare, “It’s dangerous on the road. Especially for a pretty young girl like you.”

“Aw, Geralt, you think I’m pretty!” Jaskier grins past the anger bubbling up at that comment. “And yet you’re on the road alone. Seems to me we might both be safer travelling together. I could be your barker, and you my muse! It certainly seems like your reputation could use some improvement. I know I don’t have cat eyes or two huge swords strapped to my back or-” Jaskier eyes Geralt’s arms appreciatively, “-strapping muscles, but I’ve been on the road for months already. I think I can handle--”

Geralt spins around, and Jaskier doesn’t have time to startle before Geralt’s crowded up into her space, sword drawn to her neck.

Her heart stutters in her chest, the metal a cold line against her skin, Geralt’s eyes inches from her own, staring, staring, staring - and it’s not really the appropriate moment to notice it, but Geralt is _tall_ , looming over her like some sort of horrible wild cat, eyes boring into her.

For a startling moment, Jaskier thinks maybe she _has_ pegged Geralt all wrong “Geralt, I--” Jaskier stumbles backwards, trips over herself, “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

Geralt grabs her arm just as she trips over a rock, losing her balance. For a moment she’s hanging in the balance, held up by one of Geralt’s hands while the other still brandishes a blade, shining dangerously in the bright midday sun. It gives Jaskier just enough time to slip the knife from her own boot and stand back up, push her weight against an unprepared Geralt, and shove her backwards, her own dagger coming up between them.

Geralt blinks at her, takes a step back. If Jaskier didn’t know better, she’d say she even saw a flash of surprise in her eyes. Geralt sheathes her sword and turns around.

“Just because you keep a knife in your boot, doesn’t mean you’re ready for life on the road.”

“Ah, Geralt, but I’ve been travelling on my own for months already! Really, you shouldn’t underestimate my abilities,” Jaskier says, “And I know you enjoy the company.”

“I don’t,” Geralt grits, but she doesn’t threaten her again, doesn’t make another move to argue, doesn’t get on the horse and gallop off without her. Jaskier counts it as a win.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> projecting my own internalized homophobia and issues with femininity onto a fictional character who i have turned into a sword lesbian in an AU? it's more likely than you think.
> 
> thanks so much for all the kind comments y'all! sorry it's been a while since the last update, this chapter gave me some trouble (and also life in general gave me some trouble, living in america rn is like living in Actual Hell), but i'm super happy with how it's turned out!

Geralt watches Jaskier from her corner seat and nurses her ale.

It had been… surprising. When she had first heard Jaskier’s song, about her, the elves, that day on the road from Posada. It had been surprising again when Jaskier had debuted it in a tiny pub a few days away, and people listened, and cheered. That night, in the single shabby tavern in the town Geralt had just rid of it’s wyvern problem, she and Jaskier ate and drank their fill of food and mead on the house, and Jaskier had glowed, and made a face - proud with a healthy helping of smug, wide and victorious and viciously satisfied. Jaskier was just a little too tipsy on ale and attention, smiling openly at Geralt as she proclaimed with a surety the witcher envied that she was her savior, her muse, her one and only inspiration.

The words had twisted, uncomfortable, in Geralt’s gut, that night. They still do, swirling with the  _ strangeness _ of it all, of Jaskier.

And here they are, beginning to fall into a rhythm, the same one they followed that first night: Geralt’s recovering from a hunt in the shadows, while Jaskier sings for their dinner. Later, she’ll pester Geralt for details of today’s hunt for another song, and she’ll tease and beg and bother until Geralt gives in. 

Now, though, Jaskier is winding through the crowd, her cropped hair tousled with sweat and movement, gleaming copper-brown when it catches the firelight. She’s clad in a bright dress, cornflower blue and summer yellow, and Geralt watches as its skirts move with her, swaying and spinning and tangling around her gangly legs. Jaskier is a blur of activity, always, but now in the middle of a crowd, the room warmed by the crush of bodies inside of it, she fits in perfectly, wandering and weaving as she sings, a dragonfly flitting easily between the reeds.

Geralt picks dried blood from under her nails, and chews the last bit of meat off of the bone of her meal. She feels dirty for watching Jaskier from the shadows, a rugged, hard-edged brute of a woman, hungrily eyeing the bard who is everything she is not.

Geralt rarely wonders what her life would be like, if she wasn’t a witcher. It would be  _ so _ different, so far from her reality, that it’s nearly impossible to think of. After all, girls aren’t raised to track drowners, to stitch together the holes in their skin, to kill. But Geralt can’t imagine living any other life. She’s not made for sewing or spinning or baking or child-minding. She’s not sure she ever was, even before the mutagens sawed off all of her soft edges and turned her into something rough and dangerous.

But when she watches Jaskier, there’s a spark of something in her chest. Geralt doesn’t know if it’s jealousy, or grief, or fear. Jaskier smiles easily, teeth bright and never sharper than they ought to be. She flirts and laughs and talks with people, and they talk back to her, and they  _ like _ her. She fits into the world, into humanity, wears herself like a comfortable cloak. Geralt has never been able to do the same. Geralt is ill-fitting, mismatched - and across the tavern, Jaskier is singing and playing, delicate fingers fast on the neck of her lute, a picture of everything Geralt is not.

Jaskier finishes her final song with a flourish, ending it with a complicated little riff, laughing high and twinkling to the audience’s whooping applause. 

When she winds her way back to Geralt’s table, she smells of sweat and adrenaline, her grin wide and easy. She’s holding a drink in each hand, and sets one down in front of Geralt, froth sloshing over the rim and onto the worn tabletop. Geralt watches her, tilting her head slightly to track her as she dances around the table to sit down side by side with Geralt.

“Ale’s for you,” Jaskier says, “Well, the second is. I figured you could use another more than I could.”

Geralt grunts, and picks up the mug, sniffs it before taking a long draught. It’s not bad. It’s crisp and cool, and when the alcohol hits her stomach it lights up, warms her from the inside out.

Jaskier sprawls next to her, knocking her shoulder against Geralt’s, and takes a sip of her own drink. Her every action is exaggerated and overwide, but achingly comfortable and confident as always. She places her lute down on the table, far away from the dirty dishes from Geralt’s dinner and their twin mugs. 

The barmaid walks by, and offers Jaskier a grin as she gathers their dishes, and then her gaze shifts to Geralt, and she smiles at her, too, and this is all… strange. Different.

It makes Geralt squirm, even as the ale and the warmth and Jaskier leaning comfortable against her urges her to curl up into the cheerful, tipsy atmosphere. 

Geralt stands up, suddenly enough that Jaskier has to catch herself from falling into the void Geralt’s left behind, sloshing ale on her skirts.

“Ack-  _ Geralt _ !” Jaskier protests, preoccupied with mopping up the ale quickly wicking into her clothing.

Geralt doesn’t say anything. The discomfort in her chest has reached a crescendo, itching under her skin. The tavern is loud, stuffy, stifling. She needs some peace and quiet, the crisp of cool forest air, to get away and sharpen her swords and count her potions and clear her head. It feels crammed full of wool and soppy with sweet-bitter ale.

“I have to meditate,” Geralt says, in lieu of a proper explanation, a proper goodbye, a proper anything - but there's never been anything  _ proper  _ about Geralt, anyway.

She doesn’t turn back to see Jaskier’s reaction as she leaves, leaves to  _ their _ room, because fuck, they’re attached to one another now, in the literal sense, like a dog and a bur. She itches to scratch and tear it out, so unused to this sensation - but something stays her hand. 

She tries to tune out the scent of Jaskier as she leaves, ignores the chamomile and salt in her lungs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i've been saying this every chapter, but this one gave me some trouble! thanks for being so patient, y'all, i hope its worth the wait! i know i am super happy with how it turned out. at first this chapter was a whole different scene, and then that scene was split in two, and then this half was floundering without any setting until i managed to finally get it together. hopefully the next chapter, being the second half of that aforementioned dissected scene, will come together faster, but who knows!

The problem was this: Geralt never gave her enough details about her hunts, and never let Jaskier get a good look at any of the monsters she’d killed. The best view Jaskier ever got was a butchered head or a fistfull of severed talons.

The solution was this: to watch the battle first-hand. 

The second problem was this: Geralt would never in a million years let Jaskier get close enough to a monster to watch her fight it.

It was insulting, honestly. Yes, Jaskier was bold and loud - when she needed to be, when she was fulfilling her role, being the center of attention any good bard needed to be. She could be quiet and unseen when she needed to. She wasn’t _stupid_. 

The plan had been simple. Follow Geralt, observe the battle from afar, take notes and remain out of harm’s way. But then there was a shadow streaking across the sky, a shriek that wanted to shatter glass, and then a shockwave, a blast of power arcing up into the air like a crack of thunder. It shook branches, bent trunks, and sent the gryphon crashing back to earth.

Right into Jaskier’s hiding spot.

So, now, Jaskier is running. She sacrifices just a moment to send a panicked glance behind her, and yep, that is a very large, very dangerous, very angry bird-lion monster. Fuck. Of all the places Geralt could have possibly knocked it out of the sky into, it had to be Jaskier’s vantage point. Jaskier hopes her journal - abandoned far behind her in a very sudden and urgent panic - isn’t currently being ripped to shreds or ground into the mud. She had gotten some good sketches and bits of prose down before the gryphon fell down on top of her. 

Her heart is beating a mile a minute in her chest, and she’s hardly paying attention to the burning in her legs as she races across the uneven forest floor. She slips on wet leaves and turns her ankle on a particularly difficult log, but she rights herself desperately and continues on. She can still hear the gryphon behind her, crashing through the foliage and snarling and--

She bursts into a clearing, and nearly into Geralt. The witcher is standing in the middle of a circle of flattened trees, mud and leaves smeared across her whole left side, her entire body tense with the fight. Jaskier can see her knuckles are white on the hilt of her sword, and her hand is up, a sign tracing into the air, until a moment too late her eyes widen with recognition.

“Fuck!” Geralt swears just as Jaskier ducks. Geralt manages to redirect the magic she’s slinging into a stand of trees, and they crumple like dry twigs under its impact. Jaskier hits the soft earth hard, hands over her head and knees curled to her chest. “Jaskier, what the fuck are you doing here?!”

Geralt’s voice is all the warning she gets before she’s being grabbed and roughly pulled back to her feet, the witcher’s hand like a vice on her forearm.

Jaskier’s still catching her breath to answer when there’s another roar from behind her, and a creaking, crashing noise as the gryphon bursts back into the clearing.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt snarls, and charges at the gryphon.

Jaskier takes a few stumbling steps back. Feeling lightheaded from the chase and the adrenaline, she can only watch and scramble to stay out of the way as Geralt goes toe-to-toe with the gryphon. It’s a huge, hulking beast, its shoulders nearly meeting the treetops when it stands tall - but it’s keeping its body low to the ground, crouched like a cat about to pounce, darting towards Geralt and back out of her range as soon as she tries to retaliate. Jaskier wants to pay attention to the gnarled mass of its thick mane, the way the fur sways and shakes as it pounces and recoils, wants to notice the play of light on its wings, its lithe catlike movement, its piercing red eyes perched behind its jagged-edged beak. She _wants_ to be noticing everything, to remember it all so she can sing of it just how it was - but the panic rising hot in her throat is the only thing she can focus on. The rush of fight and flight is buzzing through her, leaving her legs shaky and her heart jumpy. And then Geralt is leaping at the gryphon, sword raised for a perfectly-aimed attack - but the gryphon turns, raises a wing--

“ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier shouts.

The warning does nothing. Maybe it only made things worse - breaking Geralt’s focus just as the gryphon connects with her, a huge wing smacking into her like a wall of force, sending her flying. Jaskier is reminded, rather hysterically, of that time one of the geese at the harbor formed a grudge against her. For weeks it would chase her, hiss her, bite her, and on more than one occasion, attack her flat out. Jaskier had had to change her routes to and from the academy to avoid it.

But, no, this isn’t a goose, and while Jaskier had ended up with a decent-sized bruise on her leg from said goose, Geralt was in for much, much worse. Jaskier could see the witcher struggling back upright, avoiding the gryphon’s churning talons as it nearly trampled her. To be a beast so powerful and towering you could kill the thing you were hunting on accident beneath your heel - that’s a good bit of poetry, but now’s not the time. Now’s not the time because Jaskier’s warning, apparently, had been of both more interest and use to the gryphon, whose eyes are fixing on Jaskier from across the clearing.

Shit.

Jaskier bolts, the only thought in her head is to _get away, away, far away_. She’s not thinking about how she could fight back, about what the best hiding spot could be, about anything. She’s just putting as much distance between her and the gryphon as she can.

Jaskier has always liked her legs. They’re long, an important part of the height she prides herself in. They’re not, it turns out, longer than a gryphon’s. Nor faster.

It all happens in an instant. One moment she’s turning tail and running, the next she’s crashing into the ground, breath choked out of her, her palms scraping painfully against the leaflitter as she lands. She coughs, gasps, tries to get her lungs back in working order - but there’s the weight of a huge, heavy talon on her, and she’s pinned, and she’s so _absolutely fucked_ \--

There’s a deafening roar, and Jaskier thinks this is it, she’s done for, the gryphon is simply screeching its delight in its victory to the heavens. But then the claw is very swiftly removed from her, and she can scramble back onto her knees again, thank the gods. She’s spitting dirt and leaves, and behind her there’s commotion, and noise, and furious screeching. 

She turns just in time to see, out of the corner of her eye, the final blow. Geralt, driving her silver sword deep into the gryphon’s chest, the beast convulsing and thrashing and then going limp. Once Jaskier is blinking the dirt out of her eyes and is able to take a good look, the gryphon is lying dead on the ground, and Geralt is standing over it, black-red blood dripping from her blade. 

Jaskier slumps over onto the ground, lungs burning, legs aching, palms stinging. But then Geralt turns to look at her, and she might be in more trouble now than when the gryphon was after her.

“What-” Geralt stalks towards her, “-the _fuck_ -” Jaskier scrambles into a sitting position, a thrill of fear running through her as she meets Geralt’s narrowed, slitted eyes, “-was _that?!_ ”

Jaskier has a million excuses and apologies on her tongue, and she’s trying to gather breath to say them as geralt stomps up towards her, looms over her - Jaskier raises her hands up in placation - and then Geralt drops to her knees in front of her.

Jaskier’s brain is still playing catch-up as Geralt tugs her hands into her own, and oh fuck, is that blood?

“Geralt--” Her voice comes out more panicked than she had intended.

But Geralt is grimacing scrutinizingly down at her hands, running her fingertips across the raw, red skin. Her left is dropped quickly - it’s only scraped and dirtied. But Geralt is carefully, slowly, unfurling her right, revealing a vivid splash of red across it. Geralt wipes at it, brushing the blood away, and Jaskier yelps a curse and jerks her hand back towards her on instinct.

Geralt is gentler when she reaches back out, one hand wrapping around her wrist to steady her, the other going to tug a long splinter of wood out from the wound. Jaskier winces, biting her cheek, but wills herself to stay still. When she meets Geralt’s eyes there’s not the anger she had expected - Geralt’s brow is drawn tight and her jaw is set hard in something that might actually be concern.

“Can you move your fingers?” Geralt’s voice is low, steady. 

Jaskier curls her hand closed around itself. It stings as the movement pulls her skin taught at the jagged edges of her wound, but it works.

“Your wrist?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier swallows, cautiously rolls her wrist. It’s sore; the effects of not one but two surprise plummets to the ground, only to be caught with all of her weight on this little hinge between her arm and hand. But it’s moving like it should, and it doesn’t hurt an unreasonable amount, Jaskier thinks. She’s not entirely sure what an unreasonable amount of pain would be - she has had the good fortune to have very little frame of reference for this sort of thing - but she thinks it must not be broken. Only bruised, with any luck.

“I think it’s okay--” Jaskier says, only to bite her words off in a wince when Geralt upends her waterskin over Jaskier’s hand. The cool water should be a relief, but it stings like hell when it washes into the gash in her hand.

“Could be deeper,” Geralt says, sucking in air through her teeth, “Could be shallower,” her eyes meet Jaskier’s this time, narrow, her mouth twisted into a snarl “What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

Jaskier swallows a knot of guilt. She had expected Geralt to be angry, and she’s angry, yes, but also there’s a hint of wild fear behind it. She made the hunt harder for Geralt, put Geralt in harm’s way along with herself. The knowledge twists uneasily in her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, “I didn’t--”

“Shut up,” Geralt cuts her off and stands, “We need to get back to camp.”

Jaskier shuts her mouth with a click. “Right,” she says, and tries to right herself on legs wobbly with exhaustion and adrenaline. She’s barely creaked to standing before Geralt is roughly wrapping an arm around her and dragging her steady.

“Come on,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier forgets about her journal until they’re back at their camp. It probably didn’t survive the fight, but some part of her itches to go back for it, to try and find it. It’s probably been churned into the earth, shredded by gryphon claws, having met the same fate she nearly did. But, damn it, she had gotten some really great stuff down before everything had gone to shit.

Geralt is patching her up with a carefulness that puts Jaskier off-kilter. Geralt first makes sure the only significant wound on Jaskier is the cut to her hand, checking her over for other bruises or broken bones (nothing broken, plenty bruised, for the record). She has plenty of minor scrapes and scratches on her, of course - most courtesy of the woods she was hurtling through rather than the gryphon - but the wound on her hand, while it is, quoth the witcher, not as deep as it could be, still apparently needs Geralt’s poking and prodding.

“Ow-” Jaskier is trying to be still and quiet, really, she _is_ , but the salve Geralt is rubbing into her hand smells sharp and bitter and feels much the same against her torn skin.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but she does slow down, working the salve in with short, gentle strokes. She’s hunched over Jaskier’s hand as they both sit by the fire, cradling it over her lap. Jaskier focuses on the feeling of Geralt’s callused fingertips rasping rough across her palm instead of focusing on the pain. Geralt’s hands are steady as she works, warm and strong and crossed with both old scars and new ones. After she rubs the salve across the wound, she moves on to Jaskier’s fingers, gently holding and assessing each one, taking stock of the scrapes across her knuckles. Her fingertips are sticky with the salve, leaving warm trails in their wake. She moves on to Jaskier’s wrist, taking it between her hands and gently palpating it, probing the places where her bones meet, rocking it in a slow, gentle circle, to make sure it all moves how it should.

Jaskier is so lost in the focus on Geralt’s hands, Geralt’s touch, that she hardly notices Geralt’s finished until she stands up, turning to rummage in her pack. Jaskier eyes the salve a little dubiously, remembering the times she’s watched Geralt mush drowner brains and monster hair into her potions, and hopes this mixture is made of something tamer. 

Geralt pulls out a bundle of long cloth scraps, dyed brown-red in speckles and patches that are clearly old bloodstains, and turns back to Jaskier.

“Geralt--”

“They’re clean,” Geralt says before she can finish her complaint. 

Geralt takes hold of the wrist Jaskier had unconsciously pulled towards herself, and pulls her injured palm back towards her, methodically winding one long strip across it.

“And what about that salve, then?” Jaskier asks with a feigned conversationality, “I hope you’re not going to tell me it’s like your potions and is going to rot my hand off, or something.”

“It’s perfectly safe for humans,” Geralt says, tucking the ends of the bandage beneath each other, “just fir bark, lard, and comfrey.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says. Geralt releases her hand and goes to tend the fire, and suddenly Jaskier feels rather alone. “Thank you.”

Geralt is quiet for a moment.

“This wouldn’t happen if you didn’t insist upon following me everywhere.”

Jaskier looks up, and catches the witcher’s eyes in the firelight. 

“Well, no, I suppose not,” Jaskier says around a grimace, tucking her bandaged hand into herself. She’s still in the same filthy pair of clothes she was in in the woods.

“I mean this _shouldn’t_ happen.”

“Geralt, I’m sorry! I just- you never give me enough details on the hunts, and I thought I could--”

“I didn’t mean this time,” Geralt says, “I meant every time.”

Jaskier feels like she’s had the air kicked out of her again, but there’s no gryphon crashing into her to blame it on.

“I know you come from money,” Geralt says, and oh, Jaskier doesn’t like the way Geralt says it, and doesn’t like the way it feels like a secret she’d meant to keep.

“So?”

“You could have every luxury you mourn and then some,” Geralt says, “And you wouldn’t be putting us both in danger.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Sorry won’t be enough for your family when you end up dead because of me,” Geralt snaps.

Jaskier flounders for a moment, mouth working without any idea of a sound to make. Guilt twists hot and heavy in her stomach, and she shrinks under Geralt’s glare.

“Geralt, I-” her heart sinks, drops to her gut, and she’s trying to formulate an apology strong enough to get across how terribly bad she feels about all this, but Geralt keeps talking.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Geralt says, and turns her back to her.

It’s like a punch to the diaphragm. But in an instant the guilt is replaced by incredulousness, and then anger, rising hot like bile into the back of her throat. How does _Geralt_ know where Jaskier should be? What makes Geralt think _she_ can tell Jaskier what she should and shouldn’t do? “Well, this is where I want to be,” Jaskier snaps, “so what are you going to do about it?”

Geralt glares at her.

“No, really! You’ve had plenty of chances to dump me at the side of the road, Geralt. And you haven’t! Just tell me you hate my guts and want me to leave, I will. But I don’t think that’s what this is really about.”

“This path isn’t for people like you,” Geralt growls.

“And what, pray tell, are people _like me_?!”

Geralt glowers at the outburst, “You. You’re a human. Your life is in the cities and the towns. Your a bard, for fuck’s sake, you need an audience. People like you. You fit in. You’re not made to be out here, on the path. You should go back.”

“A human?!” Jaskier sputters, “And what does that make you?”

“A witcher.”

Jaskier shakes her head, “Well, if you’re so _far_ from human, how could you possibly know what I want? What I _should do_?!”

Geralt rubs her temples, “I _do_ \--”

“You don’t!”

“Look at yourself,” Geralt waves an arm at her.

Jaskier prickles, “Look at _myself_? Geralt, I’m covered in mud and leaves, I’ve been bleeding onto my skirts for half an hour, and it’s been days since I’ve had a wash! I’m just as wild and filthy as you are!”

“That’s not what I--”

“But you know what, fine, maybe I don’t have your muscles and your scars and your black leather, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be- be out here, travelling!”

“You’re not--”

“Yes, yes, I’m not a witcher, I don’t have mutations, I can’t stomach your potions - I’m aware that I’m a bard, not a monster hunter, Geralt, I’m not _that_ stupid. You know what I think? I think _you think_ you know me better than I know myself.” 

Geralt growls, “ _Bard_ \--”

“Let me finish,” Jaskier snaps, “I _wanted_ a life on the road. I sought it out. It might not be what I was born into, but it suits me. Better than the life I was _supposed_ to lead would. And do you know why I left?”

Geralt looks like she might be about to speak, but Jaskier continues over her. “There were a lot of reasons I left. But the biggest reason was because I wanted to get away from people telling me what I _should_ be doing.” Jaskier takes a breath, “Maybe I don’t have as much to run from as a witcher might. But I did leave for a reason. I escaped - from everything that was trying to control me - the people, and the expectations, the rules and the traditions. I thought that might be something we have in common,” Jaskier raises her chin towards Geralt, a challenge, meeting her eyes, “Don’t tell me _you’d_ be happier in some- _gilded cage,_ than out here.”

“I’m not-” Geralt starts, then seems frustrated by her words, “There’s nothing else for me, but you--”

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me I’m at all suited to childbirth and politics.”

Geralt reluctantly shuts her mouth, and looks away. Jaskier is reminded of an irritated housecat by the way Geralt reacts: she stays silent, breaks eye contact, grits her jaw even as it’s clear she’s fishing for a rebuttal that she won’t find.

It’s rather satisfying. And the longer Geralt stays silent, the surer Jaskier is that she’s got no good retort. That this silence is her begrudgingly admitting she’s lost.

“Are we on the same page, then?” Jaskier crosses her arms in front of herself, staring Geralt down.

Geralt’s shoulders slump the tiniest bit. Maybe she’s even rearranging her own opinions of Jaskier, her flawed evaluation.

“Yes. You’re not suited to politics,” she says, finally.

“Really?” Jaskier raises a brow.

“Of course,” Geralt says, standing abruptly and giving her a rather forceful pat on the shoulder as she passes, “You’re far too much of a harlot.”

Jaskier sputters at Geralt’s back as she retreats to Roach and her saddlebags. But when the witcher turns to glance over her shoulder at her, Jaskier can swear there’s a crinkle of amusement pulling at the corners of her eyes.

Jaskier files away this information in her head: Geralt is a sore loser, even of arguments.

“Among other things that also made me unsuited for courtly life, yes,” Jaskier sniffs, turning her attention to her lap and her clothes smeared with blood and dirt. “Can you grab me something clean to wear while you’re over there?”

Geralt shoots a growl back. Alright, maybe Jaskier was pushing it, maybe Geralt was still in a little bit of a hissy mood, even if she had almost nearly apologized-- and then a bundle of clothing is being dumped into her lap.

Jaskier grins up at Geralt as she passes back to the campfire, and Geralt stubbornly doesn’t meet her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so anytime i say a chapter won't take very long is a lie, and i guess this is just my updating pace. oh well, i hope y'all enjoy this chapter anyway! it was a bit of a beast to work on but i'm really happy with how it turned out.
> 
> and, just a head's up, my posting speed may get even slower from here on. november is just around the corner, and i'm planning on participating in nanowrimo writing a project that is not this, and in fact not fanfiction at all, so my writing time may be largely eaten up by that. that and the fact that i have to write some blog posts for my job which are ALSO giving me trouble, and the holidays, and possible post-election terribleness, and etcetera, etcetera. but this au and this fanfic in general have been a really fun cozy place for me to hang out in, and i definitely want to keep working on it, even if it ends up being at a slower pace, and am hoping to continue writing until i reach some sort of conclusion. it just might take a while! 
> 
> thanks for reading y'all :^)

The scar on Jaskier’s hand was thin and pink. It had healed quickly - for a human, at least - and it paled in comparison to any of Geralt’s. Geralt’s scars were a criss-cross of tears and darns, sprinkled generously across her skin. Compared to the deep claw marks that rent Geralt’s back and the long dark gash across her cheek, Jaskier’s own little nick was nothing. 

But Geralt’s scars blended together, after a while. She was a witcher, it was expected. Geralt knew the scar on that hand was the only one of its kind crossing Jaskier’s skin. And she had expected, when Jaskier finally earned a token of the kind Geralt collected on one of these little misadventures, that Jaskier would leave. She had thought that the pain of a mending palm, a wound across the hands that make her  _ her _ , would be too much for any musician. 

But Jaskier is still here. Still following Geralt, still plucking melodies from her lute late at night around the fire, still following Roach day in and day out.

And her palm had healed well. It hadn’t taken long for her to be able to strum her lute again - she had joked with a wiggle of her eyebrows that she was lucky it wasn’t her fingering hand that had been hit - and she was able to gingerly hold a quill to write after a handful more days. The bandages had come off quickly, leaving first a long thin scab, and then healed skin, delicate and fresh and pale.

Geralt had the inexplicable urge to touch. To run a hand down the knotted line, to feel the scar tissue under her own fingertips. Jaskier’s hands were a musician’s, thin and nimble, nothing like Geralt’s. She wanted to compare hands, her scars innumerable, running across her knuckles and fingertips, Jaskier’s that single, rosy dash. 

It was ridiculous. Something about Jaskier had gotten under her skin, and Geralt found it quite baffling.

At least, while Jaskier hadn’t fled, she had learned some caution. She still had refused to stay in town this morning, when Geralt had left on the hunt, but she had agreed to stay on the road with Roach while Geralt tracked down the endrega nest and destroyed it. She had said something about her own dislike for bugs when Geralt finally gave into her questions and detailed the beasts she was to hunt, and it was a fine enough excuse for both of them. Truly, Geralt didn’t need her nearby at all, but Jaskier was persistent, and she had insisted on coming, albeit at a safer distance “ _ in case you’re injured, and you need my help to get back _ ”.

As if Geralt could ever need her help.

But that was the thing about the bard. She stayed, time and time again. She followed Geralt, offered her help, and her eyes crinkled around the edges whenever Geralt handed her a hare to cook or took her laundry to wash in the river. For some reason, she insisted upon this little back and forth of favors and kindnesses, company and, as much as Geralt loathed the word, friendship. She trusted Geralt, though she had no reason to. 

Geralt wasn’t really sure what to think of Jaskier. So, for the most part, she avoided thinking of her.

The fight went as it should, simply and efficiently. Geralt burned and bombed the vestiges of the nest that remained in the ground and webbed into the landscape, and selected the ugliest endrega with the biggest fangs to chop off and take back to the alderman.

When she made it back to the road, Jaskier was still there, sitting with her back to a tree and her lute in her lap, plucking leisurely at it. Roach was grazing nearby, cropping the lush grass short with an impressive efficiency. Geralt stepped on a stick, and Jaskier looked up at the noise.

“Geralt! There you are!” In a moment she was setting aside her lute and springing to her feet “Are you alright? How did it go?”

Geralt held the dripping mandibles up out of the way as Jaskier poked and prodded her. She would never hear the end of it if Jaskier got any of the venom on herself - it would eat through the thin cotton she wore in no time - nevermind that Jaskier was the one putting herself in dripping range of a gore-spattered witcher.

“I’m fine,” Geralt said, “No sweat.”

“No blood either, I hope?” Jaskier asks, squinting suspiciously at the dirt stains and scuff marks crossing her armor.

“Not mine,” Geralt says, and pushes past Jaskier to deposit her grisly trophy into Roach’s saddlebags - Jaskier had been disgusted the first time she indiscriminately shoved monster parts in with the rest of her belongings, so Geralt had picked out a particularly filthy burlap sack to be reserved for the nastiest bits and bobs.

“You know, I’m not sure it even counts as blood when it’s that, er, yellow-y green-y color,” Jaskier continues, retrieving her lute as Geralt takes Roach’s reins and urges her back onto the path. 

Geralt could ride Roach back to town, but it wasn’t far, and the sun was still high enough in the sky that there was no threat of getting caught out after dark. It was best to let her rest. Geralt had been doing a lot more walking, recently, with Jaskier in tow and mountless. It should’ve been frustrating, slow and inconvenient. But it wasn’t any of those things, not very much at least. Jaskier talked while she walked - talked while she did  _ anything _ \- and it made the long hours between villages pass a little faster, a little less monotonously.

The town with the endrega problem is hardly more than a handful of old buildings huddled together, but there’s still enough trade along the route it’s situated on that a small tavern with rooms for travellers had popped up along the roadside, sprawling over and into it like a poorly-trimmed hedge. By the time they reach the worked fields and scattered cottages that mark the edges of town, the sun is still bright and high against them, and Geralt’s starting to feel sticky and hungry. Her hunt may have been routine and gone smoothly, but she’s still in need of a bath and a meal. 

Jaskier continues to talk, babbling about whatever it is she’s been babbling about since they reunited, and Geralt goes from half-listening to not at all paying attention as a small group of figures appear on the path ahead of them. They’re drawing nearer as Geralt and Jaskier are, and they’re the only people she’s seen on the sparse road so far. Geralt’s hands want to go to her swords, but she stays them. No need to get nervous and send an encounter south before it even begins.

Then the wind shifts and Geralt catches a scent that’s vaguely familiar, and realizes one of the men ahead of them is the town alderman, the one with the overflowing herb garden in his front yard. The tang of mint and thyme carries on the wind from him, and Geralt relaxes, though in the back of her mind she still wonders what he is doing so far from town, and with what look to be two other burly men. There’s the scent of ash and oil and old blood on the air, too, and Geralt thinks one of the men with him must be the blacksmith, the other perhaps a butcher.

As they draw nearer, their intentions become clearer. Even without the smell of anxious sweat, Geralt can read their postures clearly: defensive, stern, nervous but trying not to show it.

“Halt!” the alderman calls when they’re a handful of paces apart, and Geralt obeys, Roach slowing to a standstill behind her. Jaskier makes it a few more steps before quickly catching herself and stopping.

“You killed the beasts, then?” the alderman asks, voice guarded.

Geralt nods, slips the oozing mandibles out of their bag and shows them to the alderman, “The nest is destroyed. They won’t be bothering your town any more.”

“Good,” the alderman says, seeming to relax a little with the news, “Your payment, witcher,” he says, and tosses Geralt a bag of coins.

Geralt drops the mandibles to catch it, no use for them now that she’s been paid. The bag is weighty, and clinks pleasantly when she grabs it - at least they don’t seem to have stiffed her. 

“Well, job well done and all that, congratulations on your newly bugless forest,” Jaskier says, continuing down the path towards the group of men, “Lovely day out, isn’t it?”

One of the men, with cracked fingertips and a soot-stained shirt stops her with a hand when she nears. “Sorry, lass,” he says with a voice like his throat’s got a burr caught in it.

“What?” Jaskier asks.

The man looks almost embarrassed, but he continues on, “Nothing against either of you, but you two’ll have to turn around,” When his eyes shift to Geralt, the embarrassment fades quickly and hardens, “We’ve no need of a witcher in our town.” 

It’s not surprising to Geralt. Some towns - many towns - especially the small little scraps of villages like this one, don’t want a witcher bringing them bad luck. As much as Jaskier tries to fix her reputation through song, people will always hold a distrust of witchers, and for good reason. She had hoped for a meal, a bath, and a bed, but she’s done without plenty of times before and will do without plenty more times.

What does surprise her is Jaskier’s reaction.

“I’m sorry, my good sir, but this here woman just saved your town from a nest of nasty giant bug-monsters, so do you want to try again?” There’s a simmering heat behind her words, and her eyes are hard as she fixes them on the blacksmith.

The alderman’s surprise is clear on his face. He turns to Jaskier at the same time Geralt does, sputtering to his own defense, “Excuse me?”

“I said, do you want to try that again? Maybe this time, you could say ‘ _ hey, thanks for killing those monsters for us, would you like a drink on the house?’ _ instead.”

The man’s face crinkles in confusion and then distaste, “I’ll let you stay happily, miss, but not that one-” at the words _ that one _ Geralt hears Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up, a hint of adrenaline on her tongue, “-we don’t take witchers here.”

“Oh,” Jaskier stands up straighter, and there’s a real challenge in her voice now, “you don’t take witchers, do you? You folk hired her, but you’ll just turn her out like a stray dog once she’s saved your pathetic asses, is that it?”

Jaskier’s voice is rising, and the two burly men the alderman’s brought along are starting to get nervous. “Jaskier…” Geralt warns, low, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to hear.

“We’re a good town,” The alderman says, gaze flicking uncertainty between Geralt and the stick of a bard glaring at him with venom, “We don’t want trouble.”

“Trouble?” Jaskier says, “Geralt just saved you a whole lot of trouble, you ungrateful git!” 

“ _ Jaskier, _ ” Geralt growls, and at her voice the alderman looks up sharply at her.

“We’ve a policy,” the alderman says, “That’s that.”

“Why, you little--” Jaskier tries to take a step forward, but Geralt catches her around the arm before she can. Her heart is beating fast under Geralt’s fingertips, and she smells like a drunkard spoiling for a fight - all full of adrenaline and anger. 

“Jasker,” Geralt hisses, and shoots a quick, cautious glance to the three nervous men blocking their path. “Don’t make a scene.”

“A scene?!” Jaskier puffs up like an angry pigeon, “What the hell is wrong with people, thinking they can just kick you out of town like- like--”

“We’re not wanted here,” Geralt interrupts Jaskier as she fishes for a simile, tugging her away from the direction of town and back towards Roach. “Come on.”

Jaskier sputters and bristles, “What do you mean-- you’re just going to  _ leave _ ? After all you did for them, and they won’t even let us stay for the night - it’s dangerous out here! There are wolves and- and- and who knows what else!” She tries to dig her heels in, but Geralt gives her another tug, feeling guilt bubble up in her stomach as Jaskier stumbles and lurches forward, but there’s nothing for it. The alderman and his entourage are still bristling behind them, hands curled nervously into fists. The tang of anxiety is heavy in the air, struck through by Jaskier’s outrage, and Geralt is as eager to be gone as the alderman is for her to leave.

“ _ Geralt- _ ” 

“Jasker,  _ please _ ,” Geralt hisses.

Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise, and then she deflates. Geralt lets go of her arm carefully, sending a wary glance behind them as they retreat. No more trouble from the townsfolk, it looks like. And beside her Jaskier is still retreating, looking like she’s bit something sour, but she’s at least not trading insults back and forth any more. 

Geralt feels another twist of guilt in her gut when she realizes she’s responsible for Jaskier spending another night in the woods eating campfire food and sleeping on the cold ground. Geralt might be used to this, but for Jaskier, it is an unusual and cruel disgrace. 

The sun lowers in the sky as they put as much space between themselves and the town as they can. Jaskier is quiet as they walk, and Geralt notices the absence of her voice acutely. For what feels like miles, there’s only the crunching of the gravel under their shoes to fill the silence between the two of them, Jaskier still tense and dour, eyes hard and jaw clenched, stewing. When the sun sinks low enough to touch the treetops, Geralt decides to get off the path and find them a campsite.

She ducks off of the road, following the landscape as it dips down and away from the surrounding fields and into a thick patch of woodland. “We’ll stop here for the night.”

Jaskier follows her, grumbling to herself. “Making us sleep out in the woods, at this time of year, it’s unbelievable.”

The anger simmering just under Jaskier’s voice throws Geralt off. Jaskier is a taut string, still tense and bitter and chewing on their interaction with the alderman. It makes it hard for Geralt to focus, and guilt hangs heavy in her chest. For those people to react like they did to Geralt is understandable, but Jaskier doesn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire.

  
  


“I’ll gather firewood,” Geralt says, when they get to a sufficiently-sized clearing in the trees. A quick test of the air reveals no scent of danger, and she can’t hear anything in the surrounding trees save for the rustling of squirrels and small birds. While the night is promising to be a crisp one, they’ll be as protected from the weather here as they can hope to be.

She presses Roach’s reins into Jaskier’s hand, “Stay here.”

When Geralt returns with an armful of kindling, Jaskier has laid out their bedrolls and has gotten Roach settled down with a patch of grass to nibble at. She has also worked herself up into even more of a huff.

“I mean, I just cannot  _ believe _ the audacity of some people,” Jaskier complains as she clears out a circle on the damp ground to build their fire, “Even after we help those people out with their monster problem we’ve got to spend the night on the ground! Would it kill them to have a scrap of decency?”

She’s setting out their bedrolls rather violently, whipping the blankets to the ground. There’s still the stressy scent of anger coming from her. Geralt drops her armful of kindling down on the ground. She wants to apologize, for dragging Jaskier into this, but the words stick in her throat.

“Seriously, after all you’ve done for them, fixing their problems and saving their asses, and they go and kick you out in the cold, like you’re some kind of common criminal! Of course they’re ready to talk to you when there’s a monster for you to kill, but after that, no, it’s like you’re chopped liver! It’s unbelievable.”

“Lots of people don’t want a witcher in their village,” Geralt tries to explain.

“Well, they- that’s just idiotic!” Jaskier sputters, “Bigots, all of them!”

“Go back, if you want,” Geralt says, “It’s me they have a problem with.”

“What- of course not! Geralt, what kind of--” Jaskier’s voice is rising high and indignant. “Of course I wouldn’t- I mean, this is about  _ you _ , and how they treat you, and it’s just- we  _ should _ be sleeping in an inn right now, both of us, but no, people have to be- terrible and judgemental and stupid! They should be ashamed of themselves!”

Her scent is heavy with frustration, bitter and soured. It looks like she’s about to start another tirade, and anxiety is curling heavier and heavier in Geralt’s gut.

“It’s just not right, these people have no idea what you do for them, or they just don’t care! It’s so horrible, it’s unfair--”

“ _Jaskier,”_ Geralt’s voice is hard and sharp when she cuts in. The churning in her gut has crescendoed, the unease of Jaskier’s anger bubbling and mixing with confusion in the face of Jaskier’s defense of her, and the heavy guilt of Jaskier having to experience being so shunned. It makes her itchy, under her skin, and so she barks, lashes out. “Leave it.”

Jaskier shuts her mouth with a click of her teeth, blinking in surprise. Geralt feels another pang of guilt. 

Nothing about this evening has gone how it should, and every misstep along the way has been hers to own.

They set up the rest of their camp in silence. While Geralt lights their fire with a snap of her fingers, Jaskier gathers water and sets it to boil. They work together smoothly, even without talking, but Geralt finds herself unsettled by the quiet.

When dinner is done, Geralt wolfs hers down, doing her best not to taste it. It’s a sad pottage, watery and thin. Nothing like they might have gotten at the inn, had they been allowed to stay the night. Jaskier picks listlessly at her own bowl, scattered with flecks of wild nettles and wilted herbs from her pack, and Geralt just wants to fall asleep and forget about this day.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier blurts, and it’s the first thing she’s said since Geralt snapped at her, “For- I can see how I might not have been helping.”

Geralt blinks. She turns to see Jaskier watching her, a painful openness in her face.

“It’s… fine,” Geralt says.

“Well, still,” Jaskier says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- I think I made you feel worse, and that’s not what I meant to do. I just hope you know you don’t deserve this.”

Geralt furrows her brow.

“I just…” Jaskier starts, and then stops. She shifts on the cold earth, pulling her cloak tighter around her. She’s quiet for long enough Geralt thinks she must have given up on whatever sentiment she was about to voice.

And she’s shivering, fidgeting as she tries to tuck her feet under her skirts, her knees against her chest.

“Come here,” Geralt pats the ground beside her.

Jaskier’s eyes widen a moment, and then she stands quickly, sitting down beside Geralt. Geralt tosses the edge of her cloak over Jaskier’s shoulders. It’s heavy wool, and it should keep her warm better than the thin linen Jaskier is wearing. Jaskier tugs a corner around herself, and it pulls the two of them together.

Geralt grabs another log and tosses it haphazardly into the fire. When it hits, it sends up a cascade of embers, drifting weightlessly into the deep blue sky above them. There they join the first hints of evening stars, mingling amongst them before each burns out in turn.

Jaskier puffs out a heavy breath beside her. Geralt can smell the oats and herbs on her breath.

“I just… wish other people saw you the way I do,” she says.

Geralt finds herself caught by surprise.

“And how’s that?”

“As a hero.”

_ A hero _ . The word jolts her like static electricity. She’s not- but Jaskier can’t truly think of her--

“I know you don’t think so,” Jaskier says, “But you’re certainly not the monster that alderman treated you as,” her voice is quiet, sad, “I just wish I could change their minds.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that.

So, she stays silent.

When the fire dies down to ashes and embers, Jaskier drags her bedroll nearer to the glowing coals. She’s still shivering, and when she lies down under her threadbare blanket, she huddles close to the witcher. They’re back-to-back, Jaskier facing the fire as she curls around the last of its heat while Geralt faces the woods. Under the moonlight the world before her is washed out grey-blue, turned to shapes and shadows, the ghosts of trees and brambles painted in thin starlight. She watches the boughs bend and weave in the breeze as Jaskier shifts restlessly, until Geralt throws her blanket over Jaskier and scoots closer. Touching, spine-to-spine, Geralt feels as the shivering lessens, and then ceases, until, finally, Jaskier drifts off to sleep. 

Geralt doesn’t know what to think of Jaskier, so she usually doesn’t try to think of her. But on nights like this, when Jaskier is pressed up against her in a solid, warm line, when she finds herself matching her slow breath and steady heartbeat, Geralt’s mind wanders.

Nothing about Jaskier makes sense. Not to the world as Geralt understands it. Her outrage at the alderman echoes in Geralt’s mind. That she was angrier at Geralt being treated as she was than the fact she had ended up in the middle. The fact that she would think of  _ her _ as a hero, sings songs about her in the hopes of changing anyone’s mind about witchers, about  _ her _ , about _ the white wolf, _ is improbable. Impractical. Unbelievable.

But here Jaskier is, at her side, against her back. After all Geralt had done to give her a reason to leave, after every scrape and missed meal Geralt is responsible for, after everything, here Jaskier is. At first, Geralt had figured Jaskier would get bored of her quickly. She didn’t let herself get used to her, because she wasn’t going to stay.

But Jaskier keeps  _ staying _ . And Geralt  _ is _ getting used to it. And it’s a recipe for disaster.

Geralt isn’t meant to have nice things.

But here Jaskier is.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> surprise! i actually have another chapter for you all. this one is pretty short and uneventful, just some pining. i realize i've written two chapters in a row of two separate instances of geralt being wistful and gay while jaskier sleeps, but like... sleeping and being gay are two of my favorite hobbies so it really shouldn't be a surprise. 
> 
> also, i haven't had the bandwidth to respond to any of your comments, but i am cherishing them all the same <3 thanks for reading y'all

It’s a week later when they’re staying in an inn at the edge of one of the larger towns in this part of the continent, rain bucketing down outside.

Geralt had a contract on what she suspected was a foglet - that or  _ maybe _ a water hag - nearby, but the rain had started as a drizzle yesterday evening and from there it only got worse. It’s midday the next day, and Geralt should be out hunting, but the rain is still pouring down in sheets and the streets are flush with mud and this is no weather to hunt anything in, but particularly not something that takes its strength from storms.

It still irks Geralt to be cooped up like this. While Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, lounging on the bed and scribbling in her notebook, Geralt feels itchy, restless. She could leave their room - small, suffocating, filled with the rush of rain pounding down on the roof above them - but only to the tavern below, full of townsfolk who she would rather not deal with at the moment, loud, busy, curious at best and more likely unfriendly. So she stays, first organizing her supplies, then cleaning her armor, sharpening her swords, checking their rations--

“In the name of the gods, Geralt, would you stop _doing_ _that_?” 

Geralt looks up. “Doing what?”

“You’re pacing like a caged panther,” Jaskier complains, and Geralt stops, realizing it only as Jaskier calls it out.

“What do you suggest I do?” Geralt says, only a little petulantly.

“Enjoy the day off!” Jaskier says, throwing her arms wide, gesturing to the four cramped walls of their dingy room.

At that moment thunder booms and cracks outside, and Geralt jumps at the sound and the flash of light that comes with it.

“Sure, it’s not the most beautiful day off, but at least it’s cozy?” Jaskier shrugs.

Geralt growls. Jaskier goes back to pouring over her notebook, but not before yawning exaggeratedly. 

“It’s a good day to be lazy, Geralt,” she says, “You should try it sometime.”

Geralt sends the back of Jaskier’s head a glare, and goes to count her potions again. There’s always  _ something  _ to do.

Geralt has counted and re-counted her supplies - herbs, tallow, monster bones, all of it - and her swords are sharp enough to cut with a look, and her armor is pristine, and her bags are more organized than they have ever, possibly, been - and Geralt is out of things to do.

Jaskier was right. She  _ does _ feel like a caged panther. But outside the rain is still coming down heavily, punctuated with the occasional flash of lightning, and it's late enough in the day that even if the sky cleared she wouldn’t be able to leave for a hunt before next morning. 

Jaskier may have her composing and her music and writing to amuse her, but Geralt’s job, everything she  _ knows _ , is out there, on the path. The path that is currently pockmarked with puddles and slick with mud.

Geralt casts a glance towards Jaskier with a sigh, and finds the bard still, for a change. Her notebook lies open on the bed, a few loose pieces of paper scattered around her, but she’s lying down, breathing slow and even, heartbeat a relaxed rhythm punctuating the rain outside.

Only Jaskier could fall asleep while composing in the middle of the afternoon.

There’s nothing left for her to do, the room is small and cramped, and now she doesn’t have conscious company, either. Not that Geralt needs the company. And certainly not Jaskier’s.

Maybe she can meditate. The cooks are starting up the fire downstairs, but dinner is still hours off, and there’s nothing else for her to do until then.

She sits warily down on the bed beside Jaskier, and it creaks in protest. Geralt moves as quietly as she can, drawing herself up into a sitting position, trying not to wake Jaskier. When Geralt moves the bard huffs and stirs, but quiets. Still asleep.

Carefully, Geralt moves Jaskier’s notebook and papers onto the table beside her. While the notebook lies open on whatever Jaskier was writing last, the words scribbled quickly in Jaskier’s hand, Geralt doesn’t look. It feels like a breach, to read her words, unfinished as they are, in a form they’re not meant to be seen in by anyone but Jaskier.

When she settles into a comfortable position, Jaskier rolls over in her sleep, curling in towards Geralt, face barely visible between the tangle of her hair and the thin blanket she burrows further into.

Geralt’s gaze catches Jaskier's eyes, closed peacefully. Her chest rises and falls slowly with the rhythm of her breathing, her heart beating steady and slow under her ribcage. Geralt has had little opportunity to observe the bard so unguarded. The armor she wears in the form of bluff and bluster has fallen away, leaving her raw and plain and vulnerable, just a girl, asleep. Around every corner, she puts so much trust into Geralt - follows her, fights for her, falls asleep by her side. It’s like turning your back on a lion, or running in sight of a wolf. It’s not wise.

But Jaskier seems to trust Geralt as easily as breathing. It’s not something she gets, not something witchers get, not something she  _ deserves _ .

And she knows she shouldn’t let this happen. But it’s been a slow slide downwards, and she’s in further than she thought. Maybe Jaskier  _ is _ a friend. Maybe Geralt wants that, though she knows she shouldn’t. 

Maybe Geralt wants more than that, though she knows she shouldn’t.

Jaskier is lying peacefully next to her, and the rain is pounding away at the window panes, and Geralt is weak. She allows herself to look, to follow the bones of Jaskier’s hands, tucked into herself, and admire the colorful pattern of flowers embroidered across her shirt, and sink into the quiet calm of her.

Eventually, Geralt closes her eyes. She meditates, and when she comes back, blearly, to awakeness, Jaskier is up and bustling around the room. She’s combing her hair out and twisting it into a long plait, grabbing her lute, and heading downstairs. Geralt can smell the warmth of stew and bread and full-bodied ale drifting from the kitchen, and the villagers will be eager for a night of food and song.

Geralt cracks her neck, stands, and follows Jaskier to the tavern below.


End file.
